In Darkness, Light
by Kryptaria
Summary: "One day, we'll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there..." "Why would he do that?" "Because he's a psychopath, and psychopaths get bored." Sally Donovan got it wrong.
1. Chapter 1

Greg's leg is burning, black trousers sticking to his skin from mid-thigh to ankle, and he swears he can feel moisture collecting in his shoe. The belt around his thigh is tight but hopefully not too tight. He can still walk and feel pain, which means he's not done any nerve damage — at least, he hopes not.

He rounds the corner onto Baker Street, feeling exposed, knowing just how many CCTV cameras there are in the area. Damn Sherlock's brother for being a nosy git. Greg struggles to walk normally, ignoring the fire that lances up through his hip and spine with every other step. He puts on his best casual act, as if it's perfectly normal for him to go visiting Sherlock Holmes at half two in the morning on a Tuesday. Wednesday, actually, he corrects his thoughts, since the clock's ticked over past midnight.

His mind's wandering. Not good. Very not good. Jaw clenched, he makes his way up the stairs, hoping Sherlock's brother hasn't upgraded the local surveillance cameras too much. They can do miracles with computer enhancement these days, and the last thing he needs is for some bored photo-analyst to notice that the strange shape of DI Lestrade's leg is caused by the wadded-up T-shirt he'd used as a bandage.

He knocks, feeling a stab of guilt that he'd probably end up waking nice old Mrs. Hudson, the landlady.

Then he laughs a bit crazily. What was he doing feeling guilty for _anything,_ much less for interrupting a woman's sleep?

But it's John who answers, warily alert — a wise precaution, at this hour. You never know who's going to show up at your door, after all. Could be a murderer.

Greg laughs again, and somehow stumbles, catching himself up against John's body, though he can't remember taking a step. If his leg's buckling from just standing still, then 'not good' has passed into the bleaker territory of 'very, very bad'.

"Greg! Are you okay?" John's concern is warm in his voice. His hands are strong, catching Greg and helping to ease him inside.

"Shot," Greg blurts out, though that's not the plan. Wasn't the plan.

"God. _Sherlock!_" he bellows loud enough to wake the dead. "Where, Greg? Where were you shot?"

That's his doctor-voice, full of confidence and command and reassurance. "Leg," Greg answers automatically.

John's hands are at Greg's coat at once, unbuttoning it to reveal the makeshift pressure bandage. "Damn," he whispers, making no move to disturb the effort at temporary first aid.

"John. Lestrade —" Sherlock's next words cut off as he bounds down the stairs, three at a time. He's wearing only a dressing gown belted loose enough that it shows off his legs and almost shows off everything else as he moves. "What happened?"

"Gunshot wound, outer left thigh. Missed anything important. Bullet's still lodged in there," John said, one hand lightly circled around Lestrade's wrist. His eyes are unfocused as he counts the racing beats of Lestrade's heart. "Pulse is fast but not too weak. Still, call an ambulance. He —"

"No!"

Greg's interruption earns him a reproving glare from Dr. Watson and a fierce, sudden interest from Sherlock. "Bloody hell, not you, too," John says inexplicably.

"No ambulance. No one — Don't tell," Greg says, looking not to John but to Sherlock. He knows his only hope for safety lies in capturing and keeping Sherlock's interest. As long as Lestrade is _interesting_ enough, Sherlock will keep him safe. Will make John keep him safe.

Damn his luck, though. Before he can get Sherlock to promise anything, darkness wells up inside him. The pain recedes, taking with it the two men who are his last hope, and Greg falls into unconsciousness.

* * *

A dull throbbing pain should be something distant, like being poked with a blunt stick, but this is raw agony. It's not something he can brace against. It's pain that's _inside_ his leg, deep under skin and muscle, somewhere that nerves aren't meant to go. He can't touch it to make it feel better. For the first half-second, his effort meets with a blanket and the crinkle of tape. Then his questing fingers exert enough pressure that the dull throb explodes into pain that's on the scale of a nuclear meltdown.

He can distantly hear deep voices arguing, but it's not important. The little stab inflicted on him, in his left arm, is even less important, barely a tickle compared to the tidal wave that's sweeping up from his leg to entirely consume him.

This time, when the darkness comes, he dives into it willingly, wanting nothing more than to escape.

* * *

Greg doesn't know if this is the second or third or tenth time he's awakened. The whole world is fuzzy, at arm's length, and while he can feel the pain, it doesn't seem to bother him all that much. The agony hasn't changed; he simply doesn't give a damn about it.

"Guys?" he says, or tries to. All that comes out is a dry, rattling sound. He tastes a drop of blood at his lips, which are parched and cracked.

"Here." John leans into view, easing a straw between Greg's lips. It's an effort to suck up even a little of what proves to be cool water, but the payoff is worth it. "Not too much. You really should have an IV, you know," he reprimands, though it comes gently, not sternly. His denim blue eyes are shadowed with worry and fatigue.

"How long?" Greg asks when John takes the water away, too soon for his liking.

"It's not quite lunchtime."

_Fuck_. Greg was supposed to be at work. "Needta call the office," he mumbles, and is stupid enough to try to sit up, which causes a resonant sort of throbbing to explode somewhere inside his brain, stretching little tendrils of agony to scrape at the inside of his skull.

One soft, strong hand pins him back down. "Sherlock took care of it. Cracked your email and sent a note that you were out ill."

"God." Sighing, he lets himself collapse back into the warm softness of the bed, though whose bed, he's not certain. "The GSW?"

John makes a sort of noncommittal noise. "I had to remove the bullet. Twenty-five caliber, fired at close range. A holdout weapon."

"Yeah. Didn't see it." Greg closes his eyes, remembering the moment of panic when he'd seen the gun. His imagination had made it bigger than a .25, of course, and he'd thought that he'd finally met his match. He laughs, the pain ebbing back even further under the realization that hits him. "I made it. I got the bastard."

"_Which_ bastard?" The question comes from his left, opposite John, just as the mattress buckles.

Greg turns to see Sherlock, still in his dressing gown, though now it's open over an inside-out T-shirt and pyjama pants. His light eyes are a bright, pale blue under the untidy mop of his hair, and they're entirely focused on Greg.

"Sherlock," John scolds, and there's a whole message concealed in that one word.

"You said when he's awake. He _is_ awake," Sherlock complains.

"I said when he's able to talk," John corrects.

"He _is_ talking."

"Boys!" The shout takes a surprising amount of Greg's energy, stealing his breath. He exhales and looks back at John. Sherlock will be Greg's protector, but John is the real power in the relationship. Greg's seen it and knows it for truth, even though everyone else thinks it's the other way around.

Immediately, John switches back into doctor-mode, and takes hold of Greg's wrist. Greg closes his eyes and relaxes as much as he can, but he's awake now, despite how tired he feels. He knows it's only a matter of time before they know everything, and he wants to get it over with, like ripping a plaster off in one go rather than bit-by-bit.

In silence, John does doctor things, taking Greg's temperature and listening to his heart and lungs. He coolly orders Sherlock away and takes over the left side of the bed, though Sherlock hovers rather than leaving the room. John lifts the blanket just enough to expose Greg's wounded thigh, leaving the rest of his body covered. It's redundant — he's already realized he's naked under the sheets, which means that it's nothing the two of them haven't seen — but he appreciates the courtesy all the same.

John changes the dressings, pronouncing him free of any sign of infection so far, and then asks, "Are you up to some tea and soup?"

He's put it in question form to be polite. Greg knows an order when he hears one. He wants to stay on John's good side, so he says, "Thanks, John. Yeah."

"Good." John gives him an approving smile and rises, fixing the blankets neatly. "Come on, Sherlock. He needs his rest."

"Actually," Greg interrupts before Sherlock can protest. "Mind if he stays? I want to talk things out."

John's dark eyes go narrow and suspicious, but not at Greg. He fixes them on Sherlock and warns, "Don't upset him. Don't disturb him. And if he tells you to bugger off, you leave at once."

"John! What do you think I'm going to do? Vivisect him?" Sherlock protests, all innocence.

They all know no one's going to fall for that, especially not John Watson. He just huffs and leaves, but not without a brief touch on Sherlock's hand. They're like that, subtle even in the privacy of their own flat, even though the whole Met knows they're shagging.

It's that discretion that gives Greg a measure of hope.

As soon as John is gone, Sherlock turns, bright-eyed and focused once more. He sits carefully on the right side of the bed, twisting to fold one long leg under himself so he can face Lestrade directly.

"What happened? Tell me everything," he says excitedly.

And Greg is suddenly there, at the edge of the cliff. He's glad John's not there to take his pulse now, though he knows that Sherlock's probably counting the beats by the shifting shadow at his throat or the way the blanket trembles over his heart.

A thousand things fly through Greg's mind, but he's practiced this conversation since the day he'd first met Sherlock. He'd always known that it would be Sherlock who learned his secret first. Well, that he'd learn the secret and live. Plenty of people had died to keep it.

Sherlock's not normal, so Greg doesn't try anything the way he would with John. There's no attempt at bargaining or explanation or excuses. Instead, he takes a breath, and says, "I killed a woman last night. I need you to get rid of the body for me, before it's found."


	2. Chapter 2

"A woman is dead because of him, Sherlock!"

"She killed her own children."

"She was tried in court and found innocent!"

"Because of a flaw in the judicial system. She wasn't _innocent,_ John. She was _lucky_."

There's silence that stretches to fill one minute. Two minutes. A third minute — long enough that Greg is wondering if John's quietly left the flat, if he's on his mobile right now, calling this in.

"I need to go take care of this."

"'Take care'? Dispose of a body, you mean!"

"John..." The protest comes soft and sweet, not harsh and demanding. It's Sherlock asking for John's understanding in a way that Greg had never pictured. God, John really had tamed the untamable.

"I can't believe this." The words are full of resignation, but John's a realist. Greg had been banking on that even more than he'd gambled on capturing Sherlock's interest.

He knows that John thinks it's just one murder, but he also knows that somewhere inside, John is fully aware that it isn't. Because for years, Greg Lestrade has been facing the same system that John is only now beginning to experience — a judicial system that tries its best, but is designed to err on the side of caution. Yes, there are innocent people that Greg's arrested and helped put away, and that thought eats at him. But worse is the thought of the criminals who weasel out of court and go free — the murderers, the rapists, the ones who destroy lives.

He hears the door open, but he doesn't know who leaves. He gets that answer after another five minutes, when John enters the bedroom, holding a steaming mug in his right hand. His left is at his side, fingers curled enough to be the beginnings of a fist without quite making it there.

"John?"

"You understand I have probably a thousand questions," John says. He puts the tea down on the nightstand within reach. Greg's finally learned that he's been convalescing in Sherlock's bedroom — as in, the one the two men probably share, these days, given the size of the bed. He's surprised at how neat and clean it is. Probably John's influence. The last time Greg had searched the room (another tiresome drugs bust) it had been a disaster.

The time for deception has passed. His life is in their hands now. But at heart, Greg Lestrade believes he is a _good person,_ no matter what he does. He's always had a natural talent — an instinct for trouble, a desire to make the world a better place, a willingness to serve the public good — and this is part of it. If it's a darker facet, one that most people wouldn't accept, he can live with that.

"Ask. I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

But John doesn't ask. He perches lightly on the very edge of the bed, looking everywhere but into Greg's eyes. When he does speak, he asks the one question that Lestrade should have anticipated, but didn't: "Will Sherlock be safe? He's gone to... to do as you asked."

_Sherlock doesn't know how lucky he is,_ Greg thinks jealously, not for the first time. Being around these two, he's gotten used to hiding it, so he's not afraid that John will pick up on his thoughts. Greg's pretty sure that after six years, Sherlock's never caught a whiff of Greg's interest, and John isn't nearly as perceptive.

"Yeah, should be all right. I scouted the location carefully."

John's expression tightens subtly. His gaze goes distant and thoughtful. "This wasn't an impulse thing. You didn't just happen upon her and decide..."

"To get some revenge? No," Greg says, careful to keep his tone calm and easy. He's not going to risk snarking at John the way he probably would with Sherlock. "Been planning this since they threw out her confession, once the crown prosecutor said she'd walk."

Though it hadn't been a case John and Sherlock had worked, it had been the buzz of the station for weeks. Greg had been far from the most vocal in protesting the abuse of the judicial system or the idiocy of the judge who'd disregarded perfectly good evidence. It hadn't been Greg's case, either — he never goes after his own, no matter how tempted. Too much risk.

Finally, John exhales and nods. "Right. How many others?"

For one moment, Greg considers dissembling. But then he meets John's gaze and realizes he's not dealing with Doctor Watson anymore, but with _Captain_ Watson.

"Five. She was the sixth."

"God." John closes his eyes and presses the heels of his hands into the lids. "You've killed — you've _murdered_ six people, and yet you work to _catch_ them every day!"

Greg bites his tongue, holding back the excuses that spring to mind. They'd been shouted by his conscience in the beginning, but with each death, the excuses grew quieter and more distant until he'd finally come to accept that he _enjoyed_ this. He truly liked being the vigilante, watching the life bleed from the eyes of the scum he hunted.

Sally has been saying it for years, that a psychopath like Sherlock would cross the line one day. She might well be right — Greg is careful not to look too closely at Sherlock. But she'd never imagined that Greg had crossed that line long ago.

When John finally turns back to him, his expression is masked. "Are you in pain? I've given you morphine, but I'd rather not give too much. It's too easy to become addicted."

Greg can't hide the reaction that flickers across his face.

John gives him a wry smile. "I don't know about all the rest of this, but I _am_ a doctor. If it hurts too much, you don't get a prize for bearing it, and I'm not about to withhold medication because of all this."

Surprised that John had come out and said it so bluntly, Greg nods. "Yeah. I mean, it hurts, but not too bad."

John rolls his eyes, a flicker of his old humor returning. "God, you're a terrible liar," he said, turning to the nightstand. It's been cleared off and covered with a towel. Greg reaches for the mug at the edge, but John slaps his hand down. "Do you need help sitting up?"

He does, but he's not going to ask for it — not from John, since he's asking for so much already. He shakes his head and pulls himself about half-upright. John considerately piles the pillows at Greg's back. "When can I walk?"

"Oh." John understands, glancing in the direction of the bathroom. "If I get you my old cane, will you use it? Or do I need to find something to use as a bedpan?"

"God, no. I'll take the cane," Greg says at once, mortified. Bad enough they've both seen him stripped and unconscious and bleeding out in their entryway. A man can only take so much humiliation in one day.

John gives him a stern look, silently warning him to stay in bed, and leaves. Greg sits and drinks his tea, though that's not helping the situation. His body is recovering from the shock now, reminding him that normal processes are still running in the background. He still has to eat and piss and go to work and call his ex-wife about the kids' visit next weekend and do a thousand other things, but none of them will mean a damned thing if Sherlock doesn't make it to the body in time to hide the evidence, to say nothing of what will happen if John decides to turn him in.

* * *

Sure, Greg's been shot, but it's not like he took a chest wound. He feels better after he relieves himself, washes his face, and puts on a dressing gown that he suspects belongs to John. He doesn't want to closely examine his reaction to that, so he carefully limps out into the living room. Things will look brighter with tea or coffee and maybe that soup John had promised earlier.

In fact, he can smell it cooking, and lets himself be lured into the kitchen. John's there, looking down into the sink. The water's running, but he's not washing anything that Greg can see.

"John?"

The other man jumps, spinning to look back at Greg, and for one moment, Greg's facing the soldier and not the doctor, and it's terrifying. Then the threat vanishes as John scolds, "You shouldn't be up. Go sit down, at least. God, you're worse —"

He cuts off, expression twisting into something like pain, and Greg can follow the train of thought well enough. Comparing Sherlock to a — (_Let's be honest here,_ Greg thinks) — to a serial killer is probably going to hit a little too close to home for John.

Greg hadn't wanted to make any excuses, but he was speaking before he even realized it: "Look, mate. I know this is awkward. I hadn't wanted to involve you two, but I couldn't think of anywhere else to go."

"Awkward." John's tone of voice warns Greg that he'd definitely said the wrong thing. "_Awkward?_ You're a _detective!_ You're supposed to _save_ lives, not take them!"

Greg bites back the retort that comes to his lips — the one about John having been a soldier — and simply takes a seat at the only clean spot on the kitchen table, a foot and a half square island of tranquility in the midst of Sherlock's experiments and lab space.

John fusses, making two cups of tea and pouring soup into a bowl. Physically, Greg's feeling much better now that his body's processed the morphine, and he thinks he could hold down something more substantial, but he's not about to ask for anything else.

"Thanks," he says when John brings over a mug, bowl, and spoon.

John takes another seat at the table, holding his mug in his hands, rather than trying to clear more space for it. He's looking everywhere but at Greg, his expression still hard, and when he speaks, his voice is very carefully controlled. "It's daytime. Is Sherlock going to be in any danger?"

Greg shouldn't be surprised at how John's thinking first of Sherlock even now, but he is. Then he realizes it's not surprise; it's jealousy all over again, because Sherlock's mad and antisocial and a complete git half the time, but he's got someone unconditionally devoted to him. Greg's always been a 'good catch' and 'that nice boy' and 'handsome, especially with that grey hair of his, looking so distinguished' and what's he got to show for it? An ex-wife who hates his job, kids he never sees because of his crazy hours, and the usual copper's cocktail of antacids, nicotine patches, and blood pressure meds. Oh, let's not forget the bodies.

"Inspector?"

Last night, he'd been 'Greg'. Now, the title just served to emphasize the distance that had opened up between them. _So much for friends,_ he thinks bitterly as he gives John a shrug. "Sorry. He'll be fine. He knows how to go unnoticed, and... well, I'd thought it all out beforehand."

The reminder makes the frown line between John's eyes grow a bit deeper. Greg gets through most of his soup before John says anything else. "I never saw it in him, you know. Sherlock's not a killer. Not that he _couldn't,_ but he just... I suppose he wouldn't bother. A waste of his time."

It sounds almost like a peace offering. Greg puts his spoon down, sending ripples through the little puddle of chicken broth in the bottom of the bowl. When he can finally bring himself to meet John's eyes again, he sees some of the harshness is gone.

"The couch will be more comfortable for you," he says, getting to his feet. "Is the pain any worse? I can get you something."

Greg lets John fuss and be a doctor again, and soon he's settled on the couch with a blanket to help preserve what modesty he has left. John's typing on his laptop at the table under the cow skull (And _why_ is it wearing headphones? Greg's always wanted to know, but he's never quite gotten up the courage to ask.)

The next time John looks over at him, Greg says carefully, "I'm not doing this for sport. These are _bad people,_ John. People I don't want walking the streets with my kids out there."

Somehow, in his determination to be at least a little honest, he's struck the right chord. John's expression clears, and if what appears in his eyes isn't understanding, at least it's not anger or disappointment or disgust anymore.

Greg can't help but smile a little bit in relief. John goes back to his two-fingered typing while Greg picks up a two-day-old newspaper from the coffee table and starts to read. He needs the distraction, because what he'd said hadn't been quite true at all.

The six people he's killed outside the line of duty have each been, to the best of his knowledge, absolutely guilty. It's almost been an extension of his job, the way he's been thinking of it, and he's been careful to keep himself on that path. Because, God help him, he's _good_ at it.

Not just good at it. He's enjoyed it.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg dozed on the sofa as best he could with his leg throbbing and the sound of John's sporadic typing. At least it was comfortable; he'd caught Sherlock sleeping there more than once, so it wasn't exactly a surprise. Sherlock's more self-indulgent than a housecat, unless he's being distracted by his work or experiments.

Sherlock's entry was loud and theatrical, shocking Greg awake. "Lestrade!" he shouts as the door bangs open. "The site was perfect. Not a camera anywhere. It was used for that human smuggling operation last year, wasn't it? I didn't consult on that one, but I read about it —"

"Sherlock!" John interrupts sharply, probably horrified that Sherlock's being approving, even _admiring_ of Greg's chosen killing ground.

Sherlock gives his partner a baffled look. "It was a surprisingly good location, John. I never expected Lestrade to make such a good choice."

"Thanks," Greg mutters, though no one was paying him any attention.

"Sherlock, you — you can't _approve_ of this!" John protests.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Sherlock sweeps off his coat and hangs it. He's always been as neat with his clothes as he is messy and disorganized with everything else he owns. "Oh, as if you wouldn't be _overjoyed_ if he'd taken care of that gang preying on women in Camden."

Greg remembers the case vividly. It isn't one of his, but his department had handled it, so it was off the table for him. It had gotten all botched up, between mishandling of evidence, a sympathetic judge, and general bad luck, and the gang had gone free. Greg wouldn't mind taking out his vengeance on them, but he isn't stupid enough to take on a whole gang at a time. Not that he wouldn't consider it, if he caught one of them alone, but really, he's not an idiot.

When John doesn't say anything, though, Greg looks over and sees him scowling at the floor. _He's actually considering it,_ he realizes excitedly, and quickly turns back to Sherlock to give John some privacy.

"Went all right, then?" he asks Sherlock, trying to sound grave and not excited. What he really wants is to get Sherlock's unfiltered opinion of how he'd set up the kill, the site he'd chosen, all of it, but he won't take that chance. Not until John is either onboard or elsewhere, out of earshot.

Sherlock has no such qualms. "Surprisingly well," he says, and he's still got that impressed edge to his voice, making Greg want to preen. Six fucking years of Sherlock's condescension, with only rare moments of praise when Greg gets something right. He _deserves_ a little praise.

Maybe it's that feeling that makes him lean forward, lowering his voice just enough to privately tell Sherlock, "Been doing this for _years_."

The glitter in Sherlock's eyes tells him the shot hit home. "I worked some of those cases," he guesses immediately.

"Two of them, yeah."

Sherlock draws in a breath and goes absolutely still. Being the focus of Sherlock's intensity reminds Greg of walking out of Ben Gurion airport at the height of August, the shift from shadow and air conditioning to the noonday desert sun. It's burning through his skin and searing the breath in his lungs and _Dear God,_ is this what John feels like when they make love? How the fuck is he still sane?

When Sherlock finally turns away, Greg feels dizzy. He's grateful that he's still sitting down, and he firmly tells his heart to stop pounding like that.

"Food, John. I'm starving," Sherlock announces, and this time, both Greg and John look at him. He blinks blankly in return, saying, "There's no case. I'm hungry."

"Boody madman," John mutters affectionately, and goes right for Sherlock's coat. He rifles the pockets and comes out with a wallet. "Chinese?" His gaze flicks to Greg in silent invitation to join them.

"Sounds great," Greg says, wondering where the hell his wallet is. He starts looking around, but his arrival at the flat is still fuzzy in his head. Shock and bloodloss and all.

"Don't worry about it," John says, taking cash from Sherlock's wallet, and if he's not as friendly as he might have been before last night, he's at least not _hostile_.

Sherlock perches on the back of his leather armchair, feet on the seat. "Don't forget —"

"Yeah, yeah. Eggrolls," John interrupts. He doesn't give Sherlock a kiss, but Greg can see it there all the same, that moment when nothing in the world exists except the two of them.

Then he's gone, and Sherlock's head snaps around to trail his gaze along the wall as if following the path of John going down the stairs, along the hallway, through the front door. Greg braces himself, realizing what's going on, and sure enough, the moment John's probably out on the street, Sherlock pounces.

"How did you get her there? She wouldn't have come willingly!"

Greg laughs, surprised, but really, Sherlock's sometimes a little blind when it comes to the simple solutions. He's always looking for complexity. "I'm a DI, Sherlock. I said I was bringing her in for questioning."

"You arrested her? What about CCTV?"

"I have access to the system. I know the blind spots. Besides, I didn't use _my_ car."

"I retrieved the knife you dropped. You were going to cut her throat."

Warmth floods Greg's cheeks and he looks away, shrugging. "It's what she did to her kids," he admits, embarrassed. That sort of attention to detail turns this from justice to something more personal, more intimate. Every time, he's felt compelled to do that, but it's still embarrassing. It's a bit serial-killer-esque.

Hell, who's he kidding?

"How many of the others have been ruled accidental?"

_Oh, God,_ Greg thinks, because now he's blushing furiously. Why is it that talking with Sherlock about death is like talking about sex? _No,_ he tells himself firmly, because he is _not_ going to let his mind go down that route.

"One," he says awkwardly. His record is three-and-three: three bodies found, three bodies concealed, if he includes the one that Sherlock's hidden.

"Tell me."

"It... it was my first. The death was an overdose."

"And? Details!" Sherlock demands fiercely.

Greg sighs, but bows to the inevitable. Sherlock hunts information with inhuman tenacity. And to be honest, Greg _wants_ to tell someone — someone who'll be admiring and encouraging and pleased, not someone who's going to judge or condemn.

Besides, a small part of him wants to see Sherlock's reaction to this secret, because it's a secret for more reasons than just the obvious.

"It was Bryce Warren."

Sherlock's eyes go wide. "Heroin dealer. He was —"

"Yeah. Your supplier."

Because that's where this had all started.


	4. Chapter 4

That night, Greg goes home to the flat he rented after the divorce. He can't afford more — not with his support payments — but he doesn't really need more. Besides, he has these thoughts that maybe, one day, he'll just pack his toothbrush and spare socks and just... leave. He knows he won't, but he thinks it all the same.

He's just gotten settled, bad leg propped up on the sofa, when the intercom buzzes. Cursing, he levers himself up off the sofa and slowly makes his way over to answer it. He hits the button but says nothing; ever since he became department spokesman, his voice is known. No sense confirming that it's his flat.

But it's Sherlock, who greets him with, "Let me in."

He buzzes Sherlock in with a sense of relief. At least it's not John — or a special response team from the Yard. Greg's really not sure which would be worse.

Sherlock's at his flat in under a minute, long legs giving him an advantage on the stairs. He shows remarkable patience by waiting until he's inside, door locked at his back, before demanding, "Is it something you actually need, or is it really _justice?_" He says it as if the concept is distasteful.

He knew this was coming, but it's still a bit of a shock. "Does John know you're here?" he asks, buying time, and limps back to the sofa.

Two sweeps of Sherlock's arm send his coat and scarf sailing over the arm of the sofa, leaving the armchair free for Sherlock to claim like a monarch sitting the throne. "No. Well, maybe. He's not _stupid._ But he's also not here, so tell me."

It's not as if Greg hasn't wondered this himself. He sighs and scratches at his hair, looking up at the ceiling. "Dunno," he finally admits. "A little of both, maybe."

Sherlock's eyes are very bright, that shade of pale silver-blue that traps Greg's gaze and holds it, much as he tries to look away. "When did you really start? As a child, did you exhibit any of the symptoms —"

"No!" Greg can't hide the shudder that passes through him. He's not one of _those,_ killing neighborhood pets and all that. He had a dog growing up, and he's wanted another for ages, but first his (now-ex) wife objected, and now it'd just be cruel with the hours he works.

"Then what triggered it?"

He manages to look away by taking advantage of the need to blink and just keeping his eyes closed. "You, you bloody idiot."

For a moment, there's silence. Then Sherlock asks, sounding baffled, "Warren? My dealer?"

"Yeah. You know we couldn't have made the charges stick. His lieutenants, sure — but they were the only ones actually handling the drugs and money. Warren was too bloody careful to keep his hands clean."

"I offered to help," Sherlock says loftily, and he had. He'd offered to build the entire case against Bryce Warren, start to finish, with the type of evidence that CPS dreams about. Only the price he'd demanded was staying out of rehab, and Lestrade had flat-out refused the bargain.

Of course, he hadn't known Sherlock back then. Now, he'd move heaven and earth to keep Sherlock out of rehab, if only out of mercy for the staff. He'd heard stories of how Sherlock had dissected all their careful addict-management techniques. Three had quit and one had entered the program himself after taking up cocaine just to try and keep up.

"Bryce Warren," Greg continues firmly, "needed to be off the streets. Only the longer we had to wait for him to make a mistake, the more people died to his drugs. You could've been one of them."

"Ah," Sherlock breathes, like he's reached some magnificent conclusion. "So John was right."

Suddenly wrong-footed, Greg blinks over at him. "What?"

"It's not _justice_. Your first time, at least, was for love."

"_What?"_

Greg blurts that out in the type of panicked way that he knows Sherlock will read like the headline in a newspaper, but he can't hold back. John knows. _John knows._ God, Greg is so fucked, and not in any sort of way that could qualify as good.

"He said you care about people. That love is the only thing that could have made you start this." Sherlock's grin was fierce. "He's learned. Love is one of the most common motivators for the murders I investigate. Why should you be different?"

He doesn't quite dare feel relief, because John might not be generalizing the way Sherlock is. At least, Greg hopes he is.

When Greg doesn't answer what strikes him as a rhetorical question, Sherlock says, "Next time, I want to come with you."

"Oh, bloody hell, no. Absolutely not."

"Don't be absurd, Lestrade. I _know,_ now. You can't stop me. Either I can tail you and possibly draw unwanted attention, or I can go _with_ you, and point out what you're doing wrong."

"So, either I don't take you along and you get me arrested by 'accident'," he says sarcastically, "or I _do_ take you and John kills me instead. Great choice."

"Don't be stupid, Lestrade. John admires you — or he did. He'll come around."

* * *

The next two times the intercom buzzes, it's for deliveries of takeaway. Greg figures getting shot justifies the financial indulgence.

He's been home two days and he's walking pretty well — well enough to be thinking of going back to work. He can stand long enough to shower or make a cup of tea, and while he won't be chasing after suspects for the next week or so, he's got a desk job. There are advantages to being in charge, after all.

The third time, though proves Sherlock right, when a light, calm voice over the intercom says, "It's John Watson."

Wondering if John knows about Sherlock's visit, Greg buzzes him in. Maybe _he's_ not actually coming in — maybe he's called Greg's colleagues and they're already got the building surrounded. Or hell, maybe he's carrying the gun that Greg officially doesn't know he owns.

Wouldn't _that_ please Sherlock? Greg starts killing criminals who weasel out of the justice system, which suddenly elevates Greg to 'interesting' status, putting him in direct competition with his boyfriend. But then that boyfriend kills Greg, which puts the world back into balance.

A little voice in the back of Greg's head whispers that if he'd just done this earlier — if he'd _told_ Sherlock earlier — maybe John wouldn't be in the picture at all, which is absolutely unfair, but there it was anyway.

He lets John into the flat and closes without looking through the peephole. No visible weapon, though there's a small gym bag over one shoulder. He's in one of those ridiculous, slightly oversized jumpers of his and softly worn blue jeans and he looks about as threatening as a golden retriever puppy.

Still, Greg can see the soldier underneath, shoulders squared, eyes alert as he glances around the flat. Out of the two of them, this unassuming doctor has the higher body count — Greg's already guessed that he wasn't stationed at a safe hospital well behind friendly lines.

"I figure you haven't gone to see a doctor," John says when their eyes meet. "I need to check the dressing, see if you need antibiotics."

Suddenly, Greg's got this horrible suspicion that John's wearing a wire. "Yeah, okay," he agrees, glancing around. His flat's small, but he doesn't need much room: bedroom, bathroom, living room that bleeds into a tiny kitchen, and a space that was supposed to be an office but that he turned into a bedroom for when the kids come to visit.

John's also assessing the space, and he finally says, "Kitchen's fine. It's bright enough."

They move into the kitchen without their usual easy banter. They've gone to the pub a few times, usually when Sherlock's catching up on sleep at the end of a case.

Neither of them is body-shy — Greg's a cop and John's a doctor-turned-soldier — but that doesn't make it easy for Greg to drop his trousers before he sits down. He keeps searching for any sign that John's got a mic pickup under his jumper or a recorder in his bag, but there's nothing.

The leg looks better. It's not swollen anymore, and the bruising has gone from deep reddish-purple to a sickly yellow. The wound itself is hidden beneath layers of gauze pads, and about half his thigh is wrapped in waterproof, sticky cling-film. The stuff has a wickedly strong adhesive — despite showering three times, the edges aren't even peeling up a little bit.

John crouches on the floor and roots through his bag. He gets out a bottle of mineral oil and a bag of gauze pads, which leaves Greg a little baffled. Catching Greg's expression, he explains, "If I rip off the film, I'll take all the hair and a good portion of skin with it."

Greg can't hide his flinch at the thought. "Thanks," he says, grateful that while John may despise him, he's not a sadistic bastard.

It takes a good long while for John to soak the cling-film with mineral oil, time that passes in awkward silence. Finally, John caps the oil and sets it aside, leaving the gauze pads in a little pile on top of the discarded wrappers.

"This will still hurt," he warns, working his short, blunt nails under one edge before he rips.

He wasn't lying. Fucking hell, he wasn't lying. It hurts worse than being shot, Greg decides in a daze, because it feels more like a burn. "Jesus Christ, how the fuck do women get their legs waxed?" he asks, looking down at the mottled patches of hair and smooth skin. There are little speckles of blood welling up and the skin's gone red with irritation.

John snorts, tossing the cling-film aside. "Rough part's over," he says, and he's not lying about that, either. Greg had worried about the gauze being stuck to the wound, but it's not. It comes off easily and painlessly.

Greg's no judge of GSW treatment, but it looks like John did good work. Apparently, judging by his slightly pleased smirk, John feels the same way. He feels around the area, checks the strands of tape crossed over the wound itself, and then starts applying another dressing.

"It's not infected. I want you to keep it covered, but you can take the gauze off before you shower," he instructs. "Leave the tape over the wound until it falls off naturally. Don't go picking at it," he adds sternly.

Greg gets back into his jeans — the denim irritates his abused skin — and sees John cleaning up the mess. "I'll get that," he offers.

"You're still healing," John says, an exasperated tone in his voice. No surprise there. Compared to Sherlock's self-destructive behavior, Greg's a rank amateur.

So instead he goes to fill the kettle, automatically offering, "Tea?"

"Yeah, thanks."

He can't help but glance back at John in surprise.

John's looking at him like he expected it. He smiles without any humor, zips the bag closed, and gets up off the floor, taking Greg's seat at the table. "We need to talk."

* * *

**A/N:** As always, this is un-betaed. I'm going back to fix previous chapters, since my style of section breaks doesn't translate well to . Cross-posted to AO3. Story update notifications also posted to twitter, kryptaria. Enjoy!


	5. Chapter 5

John doesn't talk, and Greg doesn't talk, and the silence grows thicker. The kettle's interruption is a welcome relief. Grateful for the very British distraction, Greg takes time to make two cups of tea. He finds spoons, puts out the bowl of sugar, retrieves the milk from the fridge, and considers finding biscuits, but by then he realizes he's putting off the inevitable.

He sits down, expecting John to launch right into things, but he doesn't. Now it looks like he's the one delaying, adding milk and stirring with faint clinks of his spoon against the mug.

Greg's used to being patient. Three-quarters of being a cop is waiting. So he just drinks his tea and wishes for a cigarette, letting John find his words.

Finally, looking down into his cup of tea, he does.

"Sergeant Donovan once told me that one day, we'd be standing around a body, and Sherlock would be the one who put it there," John says.

Greg can't help but flinch. The reactions hit swiftly: shock that one of his officers would behave so unprofessionally, defensiveness that anyone would say that about Sherlock, fear that she'd one day be proved right, ending with amazement.

"But you stayed with him."

John nods, looking out into the middle distance, his expression softening. "I did. And I knew she was telling the truth." He blinks, focuses on Greg. "I'm still _terrified_ of the day that the criminals of London become too boring."

Greg lets out a breath and nods. Somewhere inside, he's thought the same thing himself. Sherlock doesn't have anything like a moral compass to help him decide right from wrong. It's not that he doesn't feel; he just doesn't _empathize_.

He's read all sorts of papers and books on serial killers. It's part of the job, though over the past few years, it's been more than just a professional interest. Sherlock fits some of the parameters, but not others. Then again, the world's best analysts, profilers, and psychiatrists could spend the rest of their lives studying Sherlock, and Greg would still defy them to neatly fit him into any sort of category.

"But you," John continues after a time, and his voice goes quiet and soft. It's not his reassuring doctor voice — this is something colder, something that makes the darkness inside sit up and take notice. "You opened a door for him, Greg. Before you, I could draw a line between 'them' and 'us'."

"Christ," Greg says softly, understanding how hard it must have been to keep Sherlock on the right side of that line.

And because it's _Sherlock,_ a part of him wants to offer to take the hit for this. If he were to turn himself in, then John could put that line back where it belongs — he could say, "See? Lestrade knew he was guilty. He knew he'd done the wrong thing."

He can't. He'd lose his pension. His kids would have to live with his disgrace. They'd come to visit him in prison, assuming his ex-wife let them — assuming _he_ left them. Fuck, he'd rather be dead. He puts the cup down before he can drop it, props his elbows on the table, and lets his head rest in his hands. He couldn't have fucked this all up worse if he'd tried.

But a little voice inside him, whispering from the dark, is saying that maybe he can fix this. Maybe it's time for John to stop holding Sherlock back. The next time Greg kills, Sherlock wants to be there with him — and Greg knows, as surely as he knows the sun will rise tomorrow, that he _will_ kill again. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he's always thinking about it, picking up bits of office gossip and reading the newspaper with an eye toward his next target. His next _victim_.

"You opened that door," John repeats, and pauses to take a breath. "I can't pull him back, but I will be _dead_ before I let you destroy him."

"I wouldn't," Greg snaps back, suddenly angry. "You think I don't see it in him? Jesus, every fucking time I went to look at another body, I wondered if I'd end up having to hide evidence to _save_ him!"

John surges up to his feet and starts pacing. John has always been a quiet figure in the background, eclipsed by Sherlock's presence, but now it's like his anger is sucking the air out of the room. Greg backs out of his way before he knows what he's doing.

"And now?" John demands, wheeling around to glare at Greg. "Now, how are you going to save him? How the hell are you going to save him from yourself, _Detective Inspector?_"

In the face of John's anger, Greg backs down. He shakes his head and says, "Give him what he wants, I guess, and hope to God it's enough."

* * *

When John's gone, Greg gives in to temptation and cracks open a bottle of scotch he'd been saving for better days. He sits on the couch, leg propped up on the coffee table, and drinks and thinks back to the night he'd first encountered Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had been in his mid-twenties but looked barely out of his teens, all long limbs and gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes. His jeans hung low on his hips and his hair was actually long enough to pull into a ragged ponytail, long curls brushing over his shoulders, split ends giving the illusion of bulk. He wore a rugby jersey two sizes too big with loose sleeves that did nothing to hide the track marks up his arms. Just another junkie, another walking pile of paperwork for a detective on the brink of detective sergeant.

Greg had been two years into his marriage; the honeymoon period had already started to erode under the stress of his schedule and his job and the tired weariness that no matter how much he did, no matter how much scum he got off the streets, it was never enough.

It had actually been Greg's partner, Preacher, who'd made the bust while Greg was on the radio, bitching about the lack of backup needed to sweep the building. Then this tall kid had come stalking out of the front door, looking around with fierce intensity. He looked like a predator, setting off every instinct the two detectives had learned painfully over the years, and Preacher was after him in a flash.

Greg's head had filled with visions of knives and guns hidden in the folds of the kid's too-large shirt. He'd thrown down the mic and run after Preacher, but the kid attacked. Hadn't tried to run. Hadn't even tried to struggle. Just let Preacher grab an arm, spin him around, and slap the cuffs on. That was pretty much standard procedure down here, where it was too fucking dangerous to have a nice chat with the junkies who were as likely to run as they were to gouge out your eye with a broken bottle.

But _this_ junkie hadn't been all muddled with drugs. He'd taken one look at Preacher and dismissed him with a sneer that worked despite the cuffs and secondhand clothes. Then he'd looked at Greg, cocked one eyebrow up, and said, in a posh public school accent that had no business in this filthy area, "You'll do. You won't waste my time."

That set Preacher off with the questions, and then the PCSO cars finally arrived, and Greg had to sort things out. It was a good fifteen minutes before he had another chance to think about the junkie.

For lack of anywhere else to put him, Preacher had locked him in the back of their car. Preacher was standing nearby, talking on his mobile. Greg unlocked the back door and leaned down, looking at their unlikely prize.

The kid looked back up at him, light blue irises made all the more startling in contrast to his pale skin and the black circles under his eyes. He'd turned sideways and slouched back in the corner of the back seat, not like he was hiding — more like he was lounging, like royalty on a throne, despite the cuffs that still held his hands trapped behind his back. There was a smudge of dirt on one high, sharp cheekbone from when Preacher had shoved him face-first against the brick wall.

"Detective Sergeant — No, not yet," the kid said, tipping his head to the side. Scraggly, dirty curls swept down over one eye. He tossed his head restlessly to get them out of his face. "But soon."

Greg remembered how his fingers had itched to brush that hair away. There'd been something about him from the first moment. Fuck, even shattered by drugs, there'd been _something_.

He hadn't. Nothing about that kid invited intimacy or touch or even _friendship_.

Greg had done the processing paperwork. He'd been there when Sherlock finally relinquished his last name. He'd been there when the flags went up in every system, alerting Mycroft to Sherlock's arrest. And in the aftermath of the still-legendary battle between the Holmes brothers, Greg had put forth the offer for Sherlock to come stay with him, because Greg was... well, an idiot or something. Thank God, his wife had been stunned by Sherlock's genius (and really, the eyes hadn't hurt) and hadn't made more than a token objection.

Which is how he and Sherlock had ended up in the tiny bathroom at Greg's flat, Sherlock huddled in a miserable ball and puking up his guts while Greg tried to nurse him through withdrawal and Greg's wife brought them endless cups of tea and water. And through it all, Greg got only one piece of information from Sherlock. His dealer's name.

Three weeks later, Greg had slipped a needle into Bryce Warren's vein and then watched as his body struggled to process a massive dose of heroin. When the corpse was cold, he'd walked away and waited for the regret to hit, but it never came. All he felt was a quiet sense of satisfaction.

* * *

**a/n:** I'm going over previous chapters to add section breaks. The properly formatted story is, as always available on AO3. And like the others, this one hasn't gone through a beta, so please send me a message if you notice anything wrong. Enjoy!


	6. Chapter 6

He's not a typical serial killer, if there is such a thing. One day, he might just debate that with Sherlock. He doesn't keep trophies. No string of desiccated ears on the bookshelf, no box of stolen jewelry, no photographs. But he's a DI, and he's got access to all the records, plus what's available online.

He's not an idiot. He doesn't do the searches himself. He sends one person after one file, mentions to someone else that Sherlock's looking for a cold case to occupy his time and hints that another file might be right up his street, and by the end of his second week back with the Yard, he's managed to circumspectly get the data on everyone he's killed outside the line of duty.

Then he adds one more file to his briefcase before he locks it.

On the way out, Greg takes his mobile from his pocket and speed-dials a number he rarely calls, even before this happened. Two rings later, John Watson says, "Detective."

"I —" Greg falters, both in words and in walking, and someone bumps into him. He gets moving again and says, "I have something for you both to look at. Can I drop it off?"

Greg wonders if he's imagining the pause that comes before John says, "That's fine."

"Thanks. Be there as soon as I can," Greg says, and hangs up before he can change his mind or do something stupid, like offer to pick up dinner.

He doesn't usually take taxis, but he won't risk someone snatching his briefcase full of evidence on the crowded Tube. He's a cop; he knows that happens far more often than most people think. London traffic is brutal, as always, and it gives Greg too much time to second-guess himself.

He still hasn't quieted his thoughts by the time he's at Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson answers his knock and insists on chatting with him in the hallway until Sherlock appears at the top of the stairs. "There you are, Lestrade. Get up here," he says, disappearing into his flat.

"Oh, you go on. I hope you're bringing him a case," Mrs. Hudson says, dropping her voice to a whisper. "He's been ever so terrible this last week or so."

Wonderful. One more reason for John to hate Greg.

He goes up the steps and lets himself into the flat. John's sitting in his armchair, reading the paper. He folds it and sets it aside as he gives Greg a nod in greeting. Before Greg can respond, Sherlock sweeps Greg's briefcase away and spins away, snatching one of the chairs from the table by the window.

"Oi!" Greg protests halfheartedly. He knows he won't get the briefcase back, though, and gives in, telling Sherlock, "The combination's three-two —"

"I know," Sherlock snaps as the locks click open. Greg can't help but look at John, who just rolls his eyes at Greg before turning to watch Sherlock worriedly.

Greg prepares himself for the inevitable interrogation, and hopes that he's not destroying the relationship these two have somehow managed to build.

* * *

Greg's worked steadily through most of a pot of coffee. Every time he gets up to fill his mug, he ends up a little farther away on the sofa, as if he can distance himself from the quiet, almost intimate discussion Sherlock and John are having. John's moved from his chair to perch on the high arm of Sherlock's chair, one leg dangling, the other on the seat. Sherlock has his head pillowed against John's thigh. Though their attention is focused entirely on examining Greg's stolen files, John's hand is combing through Sherlock's hair, and every time he stops, Sherlock nudges him to start again.

They work through the files separately. John's a little slapdash, abandoning files halfway through to pick up another one. As a doctor and soldier, he doesn't avoid the autopsy photos, either of the victims of the original crimes or, in the cases where a body had been found, Greg's victims. He doesn't linger over them, though. Really, none of them do. John and Sherlock have seen it all by now, and Greg's not the type to go have a wank looking at shots of people he's killed. It makes him sick to even consider, which is one more reason he wonders exactly how a psychiatrist would label him. 'Serial killer' doesn't seem to fit.

Sherlock starts at the top of the stack and reads straight through, looking at every single page, examining every photo. Greg wonders if he's analyzing not just the information but also the pattern in which Greg organized the files. Probably looking for insight into Greg's psyche — as if he hasn't spent enough time rifling around in Greg's brain over the years they've known each other.

Greg wants to get up and take the files away — to take the _darkness_ away — but he can't. He owes it to John and Sherlock to see this through, whatever the fuck it is.

Besides, they have questions for him. Sherlock's questions are, for once, easy to answer: Why did he choose that site? How'd he get rid of the body? How did he do the actual killing?

John only ever has one question for Greg, and it's a lot harder to answer: Why this victim?

"This one's not dead," Sherlock says abruptly.

Greg looks up from his coffee, though he doesn't need to see the file to know which one Sherlock's reached. It's far too late to do this without dinner, but Greg nods all the same. "Yeah."

Sherlock's pale blue eyes seem to glitter. "He's next, then."

John's head comes up, eyes widening in alarm. He looks from Sherlock to Greg and back again, his hand dropping down to Sherlock's shoulder.

The words freeze in Greg's throat. He wants to say yes, that was his thought. He wants to ask if Sherlock has any thoughts about how it should be done. He wants to ask John if he thinks it _should_ be done.

John's hand moves further, leaving Sherlock's body to take hold of the file. He tugs and Sherlock glares at him, but after a silent conversation, John wins and claims the file. He takes it back to his chair, as if knowing that keeping it within Sherlock's reach will be an irresistible temptation.

Sherlock huffs in protest. John doesn't look up from his reading as he says, "Dinner?"

The huff becomes a sigh. "Fine," Sherlock says, surrendering more quickly than Greg might have expected. Sherlock gets to his feet and crosses the flat to sweep his coat off the hook by the door. He gestures imperiously for Greg to follow.

If Greg goes with Sherlock, he knows he's in for trouble. But from John, he'll either get an interrogation or cold silence, and he doesn't know which is worse.

He goes with Sherlock.

* * *

"Not a council flat. Too risky. Just because they _rarely_ repair CCTV cameras doesn't mean they _never_ do," Sherlock whispered, pressing even closer against Lestrade's side. Greg's trapped against the wall, Sherlock's arm behind his shoulders, his mouth close to Greg's ear. To anyone else, they look like a pair of lovers.

Greg tried to protest having this discussion here, even in whispers, but Sherlock's impossible to stop when he gets like this. So he picks apart Greg's plan — the bait used to get the victim alone, the details of the kill, the clean-up so there's no forensic evidence. And he's damned good at this. Scary good. Just like Greg knew he would be.

"Then — then where?" Greg manages to ask, steadfastly refusing to turn, because then he won't be whispering anymore, not with Sherlock so bloody close. Greg's only human, and he hasn't started dating, even though the divorce has been over for a while now.

"I have just the place," Sherlock says, and now Greg _knows_ Sherlock's fucking with his head, because his voice is pure, raw sex. Any second now, Greg knows his resolve will break and he'll turn, and that will be _it_. He'll kiss Sherlock, and no matter what, it'll destroy everything.

The temptation is gone before he can even start to move. The sudden absence of Sherlock makes Greg shiver, cold air slithering over skin that had been warmed by their bodies pressed together. Dazed, he blinks up to see Sherlock taking the bag of takeaway containers from the clerk.

"Coming?" Sherlock asks Greg as he heads for the door.

_Fucking bastard,_ Greg thinks, following him mechanically. It's not till they're almost back at the flat that Greg realizes Sherlock didn't tell him what he had in mind for Greg's next kill.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock doesn't give Greg time to think or reconsider or _anything_. That's not his way.

Greg finally goes home and crashes for five hours of restless, nightmare-filled sleep. For the rest of the day, he runs errands. He cleans his tiny flat, drops off the dry cleaning, goes grocery shopping, and manages to live a normal life until he gets a text from Sherlock. It's an address that Greg doesn't immediately recognize, and suddenly he's got a bad feeling.

_On my way,_ he texts back, and leaves most of his groceries on the counter.

He takes the Tube, paying cash instead of using his Oyster card. It's Saturday evening, early enough that the Tube's crowded. In his jeans and T-shirt and leather jacket, Greg blends in with the crowd. Once the train reaches Greg's stop, he heads straight for the texted address. It's a grey door stuck like an afterthought between an abandoned hardware store and a used clothing shop. The paint on the door is peeling, showing splotches of rust beneath.

A quick look up and down the street shows a distinct lack of CCTV cameras. He thinks back to last night (this morning), when Sherlock had said, "I have just the place."

Greg goes even colder inside, because he _knows_ what he's going to find on the other side of that door. Wishing he had a weapon, he pushes the door. It's not locked. It swings open, and Greg slips inside.

The door opens onto a staircase, black as night. When he's working, Greg carries a torch in his pocket. Now, feeling like an idiot, he has to turn on his phone and find the flashlight app he downloaded. It's just enough light for him to see that he doesn't want to touch the walls with bare hands, and by the time he's halfway up the stairs, he's thinking he might just bin his trainers when he gets home.

No one lives here — he's sure of that. Junkies have made it in a few times, but there are no squatters. The building's probably caught up in some legal mess that's keeping it deserted, and now Greg _knows_ what he's going to find when he gets to wherever the hell Sherlock is lurking.

He's not on the first floor or the second. No, leave it to Sherlock to make Greg go up three goddamn flights of stairs to the top floor. Greg's in good shape, but he won't see the sunny side of forty again, and his knees have never quite recovered from his rugby days.

At the top of the stairs, Greg pushes open the door to the flat. There's no light, but Greg hears sound coming from the back — a strange sort of rustling, more like plastic than paper. He walks through a dingy front room and a narrow kitchen, into what he figures is meant to be the bedroom.

There's a man on the floor, thrashing weakly on top of a painter's tarp, which explains the noises. He's bound with duct tape around his ankles, thighs, and body, pinning his hands at his sides. There are multiple wraps around his mouth, and in the light of the flashlight app, Greg can see that his cheeks are puffed out. Sherlock's too clever to trust duct tape alone to keep him silent.

"Is that Whitly?"

Sherlock's voice scares the fuck out of Greg, who feels like an idiot for just strolling in and not checking his back. He looks over his shoulder to see Sherlock lurking against the wall beside the door.

He's in jeans and a hoodie and a battered army jacket that fits too well for him to have stolen it from John. He's wearing blue nitrile gloves, and holding another pair between his fingers. Greg never imagined he could look even hotter out of his fucking overcoat and suits and too-tight shirts. And that's when it hits him: They're really going to do this.

They are really fucking going to do this _together,_ and the only fucking rational thought in Greg's head is, _I can't fuck this up._

"Jesus," Greg mutters, tearing his eyes away. He goes to the guy on the floor, because as much as he suddenly _wants_ this, he has to be sure. He'll call this off — he'll fucking arrest Sherlock for assault and kidnapping and unlawful imprisonment if this guy isn't Greg's next chosen target.

But of course, Sherlock got it right. It's George Whitly, thirty-eight, construction worker and borderline alcoholic with an ASBO. George Whitly, the bastard paedo who scared five little girls out of testifying and scared one into hanging herself in her closet. The guy's terrified, and that's exactly how it should be, by Greg's way of thinking.

The plan was to strangle him, to tie a rope around his neck and let him gasp and thrash and die slowly, just like that poor little girl had, because her death hadn't been a clean snap of the neck. She'd fought and kicked and bloodied herself clawing at her own throat when the fall from a stack of boxes hadn't killed her.

But Greg's got nothing with him. He can't use his belt or the laces of his trainers, because both will leave trace evidence. He'll have to improvise, maybe use the duct tape. "Yeah. It's him," he says, rising from his crouch and reaching out a hand to take the gloves.

Only Sherlock moves first, and something hard impacts Greg's wrist, sending a burning shock of pain up through his arm. He shouts something — he has no idea what — as Sherlock pulls Greg off-balance.

The phone goes flying as Greg hits the wall face-first. He's decent in a scrap, but he remembers that Sherlock studied some sort of martial arts an age ago, and apparently he forgot none of it. Greg doesn't have a chance in hell to get free before the other cuff closes around his wrist, trapping his hands behind his back.

Sherlock holds him there, not reacting at all to Greg's swearing and threats, and he doesn't say a fucking word until Greg falls silent. Then he asks, "Why are you fighting me?"

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?" Greg barks out, stopping himself from using Sherlock's name at the last instant.

"That's not an answer."

Greg can't keep from pulling at the cuffs before he realizes precisely where he's touching Sherlock's body. Thank God Sherlock's not hard, though his breath does catch a little before Greg stops moving.

"This time, you watch," Sherlock says, his voice cold and clinical.

_Shit._ Greg shakes his head and tries to turn around, though Sherlock has no trouble at all keeping him in place. "Sherlock," he says before he can stop himself. "No. You've never killed anyone. Or — _have you?_"

Sherlock laughs. It's his usual laugh, but so close to Greg's ear, with Greg helpless in cuffs and pinned to the wall, the sound takes on a filthy edge that short-circuits Greg's brain.

"No," Sherlock says, and then he's gone.

Greg lets his forehead fall against the wall for a moment. Then he turns, leaning his shoulders back against the moldering wallpaper, not trusting himself to stay upright without support. It is so fucking wrong that he's thinking of _Sherlock _and not death, because no matter how much the fucking bastard on the floor deserves to die, this isn't something Greg takes lightly. The _moment_ deserves respect, for the sake of the victims.

Sherlock's not about to let Greg get out of this without seeing every second of it. He picks up Greg's mobile and sets it down on the plastic wrap. Sherlock doesn't have a whole roll of duct tape; it looks like he hand-rolled just enough for tonight into a compact bundle. He has to struggle to unwrap it without getting his gloves caught.

The sound is incredibly loud even over the wheezing, nasal breaths and the rustle of plastic. When Sherlock finally rips a six-inch strip off the roll, Whitly starts thrashing in earnest. Sherlock leans forward and smooths the tape over Whitly's nostrils, tucking it neatly around the shape of his nose, sealing it to the wraps over his mouth. Whitly kicks and squeals, head thrashing from side to side. Sherlock picks up Greg's mobile, turning the light on Whitly, and then steps back, watching the man die.


	8. Chapter 8

Greg's legs finally give out. He slides down the wall and tries to tell Sherlock to take the tape off, to take the cuffs off, to let _him_ do this, but nothing comes out. He can barely breathe. So he watches Whitly die, slow and ugly, and watches Sherlock, who's showing even less emotion than he does when staring down into his microscope.

Greg has the feeling that Sherlock's not going to go back to Baker Street and spend the night throwing up as he tries to come to terms with the line he's just crossed.

It feels like forever, but finally, after Whitly's been still for a good ten minutes, Sherlock crouches back down beside the body — _his victim_. He peels back one eyelid and looks at Whitly's eye and then feels for a pulse at his throat.

"Sherlock," Greg manages to say, though he can't think of what words should follow.

Sherlock looks over at Greg. Half his face is in light, half in shadow. The one eye Greg can see clearly is almost silver.

"Unlock the cuffs."

Sherlock brings the mobile over, leaving the body in darkness. He crouches down beside Greg and says, "Turn around." He sounds perfectly normal, as if nothing has changed. But everything has.

Greg turns enough that Sherlock can get at the cuffs. He starts to say, "John won't..." but then he shuts up, because there's nothing he can say that's not stupidly obvious.

Sherlock hears it anyway. He gets the cuff off Greg's right wrist but catches his arm, rubbing his fingers over the sore skin. Greg knows there are bruises forming, and Sherlock's touch hurt, but he can't bring himself to pull free.

"He won't. So it's up to you," Sherlock says.

Greg tries to twist around, to look at Sherlock, but gets an irritated huff in return. Sherlock pushes the key into his right hand and lets go, sitting back. Telling himself that the absence of Sherlock's touch shouldn't feel like a loss, Greg turns and Sherlock holds the mobile up so Greg can unlock his left wrist.

"What's up to me?" he finally asks. He offers the cuffs and key back to Sherlock. He doesn't know why Sherlock has them, and he's not sure he wants to.

"It's all up to you," Sherlock repeats unhelpfully, exchanging the cuffs for Greg's mobile. The cuffs disappear into an inside pocket sewn into the hoodie; the key, he feeds onto a split ring of keys taken from his jeans. "You can tell him whatever you like, regarding what happened tonight, or you can tell him nothing at all. I'll make certain he believes it."

"What the —"

"We can keep going,together," he continues as if Greg hadn't said a word. "You can't hide this from me — whatever you try, you know I'll find out."

"Turn me in, you mean," Greg snaps angrily. It hurts inside, more than he expected, that Sherlock would try to blackmail him.

Sherlock gives him that contemptuous glare of his, the one that makes him feel about two inches tall. "Don't be stupid, Lestrade. It doesn't suit you. If you try to do this alone, _ever,_ I will find you, and I _will_ be there. You can't hide this from me."

"I don't want a _partner,_" Greg says bitterly, because it's a fucking lie, and they both know it. But while he wants Sherlock — has done for years — he _doesn't_ want to ruin Sherlock and John, and that's exactly what'll happen. Maybe John can stomach the killing of a waste of life like Whitly, but everyone has a different line in the sand.

Hell, maybe he wouldn't even accept the need for Whitly's death. Greg knows that Sherlock's not here with John's blessing — not after his declaration about making John believe whatever story Greg tells him.

Sherlock's still staring at him, not saying a fucking word. Greg's temper frays and he demands, "Then, _what?_ You're cheating on your boyfriend with me or something?"

"Turn me in. We do this together. Or we _both_ stop."

The short, simple sentences hit Greg like two sharp punches to the gut, stealing his breath, dizzying him, leaving him vulnerable to the last one — the finisher that knocks him out. He stares at Sherlock as the realization hits, because there's _no other choice,_ and they both know it.

He could drag Sherlock down into the darkness with him, and Sherlock would come willingly — maybe even eagerly. He has blood on his hands now, and it's all Greg's fault. And together, they'd be brilliant. Together, with their combined knowledge of crime and the law, they'd be nearly untouchable.

But Greg won't destroy Sherlock's life. He won't destroy the happiness Sherlock found with John. And while he's always known that one day, he'd get caught, he can't take that chance with Sherlock.

Greg opened the door. Now it's up to him to close it.

"Stop," he says, the word harsh and choked. "We stop. Christ, Sherlock, you shouldn't —"

"Don't," Sherlock snaps. He touches Greg, no more than a brush of fingertips over Greg's face, but it steals his breath all over again. "I had to, Greg. It was the only way out. Can't you see that?"

He catches Sherlock's hand before he can stop himself. "You're bloody _insane,_ Sherlock."

"So I understand." He leans forward and presses a soft, light kiss to Greg's mouth, and then draws away before Greg can even process what's happening. "Thank you."

"Thank — _For what?_" Greg asks, baffled and lost and still reeling from the chaste kiss that burns at his lips.

"For sparing John. I didn't want him hurt."

"That was one hell of a fucking risk," Greg says. He looks away, because otherwise, he'll sit there like a fucking idiot all night. He puts a hand against the wall and uses it for balance as he gets to his feet.

"No, it wasn't. Until John, you were my only friend. There was never any risk."

.

.

.

It's dawn when Greg accompanies Sherlock back to his flat. Greg's exhausted, but he feels responsible for Sherlock, like he needs to make sure he's safely returned to John.

Upstairs, they find John still awake, looking drawn and worried. He gets to his feet, almost dumping his laptop in his haste to put it down on the table next to his chair.

Sherlock throws his keys and coat in the direction of the sofa. The scarf ends up on the floor halfway to the chair. He pulls John into his arms and says nothing. They kiss briefly, and Greg remembers the soft feel of Sherlock's lips, and he knows that's as close as he'll ever get.

Sherlock vanishes into the bedroom. John watches him go, and then turns towards Greg, and by the time their eyes meet, he's not the kindly, harmless doctor who's just welcomed his lover home. He's the soldier who's faced down battle and taken lives.

"It's over," Greg says tightly, wondering if John will believe him. "I'm done."

John stares at him, and somewhere along the line, it's as if he picked up Sherlock's talent at picking apart a person's thoughts with just his eyes and his focus. Greg's used to that from Sherlock, but not from John, Sherlock's harmless sidekick. It's disconcerting, and he has to force himself to meet his gaze.

"Good," John finally says, and releases Greg when he turns his attention to the files neatly stacked in front of Sherlock's chair. "Would you mind starting a fire? I'll feel better when we're rid of these."

Greg stares at him, hearing the words John's never going to say: _Then this never happened_.

"Yeah. Sure, John," he agrees softly, and goes to the hearth to build a fire. There's kindling and long matches and a box of paraffin firelighters. John brings the files over, and they sit down together, silent.

By the time Greg's got the fire going, Sherlock comes back, dressed in inside-out pyjama bottoms and an old sand-colored T-shirt that's too big, with his dressing gown hanging loose, belt dragging from one belt loop. He pushes himself between John and Greg, leaning against John's shoulder, and slides his arm around John's waist, holding him close.

His other hand reaches out and catches Greg's. He takes away the long match that Greg had been breaking into splinters and tosses it into the fire. Then he laces their fingers together, right where John can see.

Greg stops breathing, wondering what the fuck Sherlock's doing. But John just looks from their joined hands to Greg. Then he leans back enough to kiss Sherlock's cheek and picks up the top file.

They sit together in silence as John begins to burn the incriminating pages, one by one.


End file.
